


Both of Us

by dracoqueen22



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Rare Pairings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-04
Updated: 2013-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-23 13:47:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Red Alert is not the only one who pushes himself beyond his limits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Both of Us

**Author's Note:**

> For tf-rare-pairings prompt of G1, BluestreakxRed Alert, taking a break
> 
> Title inspired by "Both of Us," by B.O.B and Taylor Swift

It was his duty to monitor his fellow Autobots, to protect them, ensure their safety and continued health. Red Alert took this responsibility very seriously, to the point that many of his fellows considered him paranoid. He bore their teasing with a quiet dignity, content in the knowledge that many of them would never understood him. 

Very little meant more to Red Alert than the safety of his Autobots, his family truth be told. He had been built for this, his spark selected to care and protect. He was more than happy to devote himself to this important task. 

So when he noticed that a certain mech was on the gun range long past what would be considered a healthy limit, Red Alert knew that he had to respond. Normally this was a simple matter easily resolved by contacting another Autobot, perhaps a friend or lover to the aforementioned mech. This particular Autobot, however, warranted Red Alert's personal attention. 

After all, he had promised. 

Rising to his pedes, Red Alert disconnected himself from the security console, spooling his data cables back into his frame. 

“Red?” 

He tilted his helm in Blaster's direction. “There is a matter I must see to, Blaster. I trust you can handle surveillance for the time being?” 

The communications officer grinned and offered a jaunty salute. “Easy as cake, mech. Ask me something hard.” He paused, look shifting into something sly and calculating. “My curiosity being what it is, care to share?” 

“I am certain you will find out for yourself soon enough.” 

A chuckle escaped Blaster before he swiveled around in his chair to face the bank of monitors again. “Put me in my place why don't you? All right then. I've got the conn.” 

Red Alert didn't think he would ever completely parse Blaster's dialogue. He drew from far too many human influences. 

“Keep an optic on energon storage delta,” Red Alert reminded as he headed for the door. “Sideswipe has been lurking there as of late.” 

Blaster's chirp of acknowledgment followed Red Alert out of the door, but it was quickly lost in the cacophony of music that soon spilled from Blaster's speakers. Listening to it wouldn't hamper Blaster's performance in the slightest. He only restrained himself for Red Alert's sake, who had little interest in the wailing instruments and shouting singers. 

It was quiet in the corridors, not uncommon after a skirmish with the Decepticons. Mechs were tired, or recovering, or in some cases, celebrating softly amongst themselves. This particular battle hadn't gone well for either side, and both Decepticons and Autobots had retreated to their respective bases to lick their wounds. 

As he drew closer and closer to the gun range, the steady sound of blasterfire became readily apparent. It was a rhythmic beat, each projectile striking a target in a cadence without pause. 

Cliffjumper stood out front, a guard of sorts, though one was unnecessary. He tilted his helm to acknowledge Red Alert's arrival. 

“He's been in there for hours,” the minibot said, stepping aside. “Won't listen to me or anyone else. Ironhide's already tried.” 

Red Alert made a thoughtful noise. “Perhaps I will have better luck. Thank you, Cliffjumper.” 

The minibot excused himself, leaving Red Alert free to enter the range. There was only one Autobot present, the very same Autobot Red Alert had come to find. 

Bluestreak was silent as he fired round after round into the targets at the far end of the course. He was still as a statue, save for the sharp, economical motions of every pull of the trigger and twist of his frame to meet a target. His doorwings were hiked high and rigid, in a matter better resembling Prowl than Bluestreak's usual relaxed demeanor. 

His silence was perhaps the most unnerving, at least to anyone who had spent any amount of time around Bluestreak. The constant chatter, annoying to some, was a decent barometer for the gunner's moods. Chatter was good. Silence... was something else entirely. 

Red Alert frowned, stepping fully inside the range, the door sliding shut behind him. He called up Prowl's concise report regarding the events of the most recent altercation with the Decepticons. Sure enough, Bluestreak had participated. He'd been stationed to cover Trailbreaker's unit but due to circumstances beyond anyone's control, Windcharger had been injured though the damage was largely cosmetic. 

Bluestreak no doubt blamed himself. 

Red Alert let out a long, slow ventilation as he watched Bluestreak. Several more rounds pelted across the range, slamming with exact precision into each target. Bluestreak truly was an exemplary sharpshooter. Red Alert would never tire of watching him. 

The rhythm paused. Bluestreak had run out of ammunition, his strict posture easing as he reached for another clip. 

“Flawless. As usual,” Red Alert commented, moving closer to the gunner. 

Bluestreak did not so much as look up at him. “My accuracy has fallen to 97.3 percent,” he said curtly. “Spare me the flattery.” 

Near enough now to catch the distant edge of Bluestreak's energy field, Red Alert winced at the emotional hurricane beneath the surface. “You hold the highest scores any mech has seen. That is truth, not flattery.” 

The new clip slammed into place with restrained violence. “It's not enough.” 

He turned, blaster raised, sighting down the length of it to find his target. In a calculated risk, Red Alert crossed the last pace and placed his hand on the barrel, feeling the thrum of rising charge beneath his fingertips. 

“You need energon,” he said, putting a light pressure on the weapon, enough to disturb Bluestreak's aim. “And recharge.” 

“I need to train.” 

“Bluestreak,” Red Alert said, as gently as before. “Enough.” 

He felt, more than saw, the shudder that danced across Bluestreak's armor. His helm dipped by a fraction, and then his blaster followed, the charge slowly dissipating. His doorwings, too, dipped until they were relaxed against his back, a configuration better suited to himself. 

Bluestreak's energy field hummed with the disengaging of battle protocols, including his targeting systems, and Red Alert ex-vented a quiet sigh of relief. Sometimes, it took more persuasion than a firm tone to convince Bluestreak to cycle down. 

He released his hold on Bluestreak's weapon and watched the young gunner remove the clip and begin to clean to his weapon, proof positive that he was beginning to properly assimilate whatever had troubled him in the first place. 

Red Alert knew better than to regurgitate false platitudes. He did not need to tell Bluestreak that the events were not his fault. Nor did he need to reassure the gunner that he had a good job. Bluestreak already knew these things, these truths. 

Sometimes, however, no matter how much we understand our own strengths and faults, there were moments when we were buried under our own disappointment. 

Red Alert was all too familiar with this behavior. 

He said nothing. Sometimes, such was the best course. 

Instead, he kept his silence and watched Bluestreak strip, clean, and reassemble his blaster. Every motion was carefully measured, expert, not a motion wasted. It was as much an ingrained, practiced art as it was something Bluestreak gave his full attention. 

Only when the blaster was fully assembled and gleaming did Red Alert reach into his subspace to produce a cube of midgrade. That, too, was part of the agreement, though usually the cube was meant for his own use. Not this time. 

Bluestreak accepted the cube with a murmured thank you and sipped at it, the dim glow of his optics gradually brightening. 

“Want to talk about it?” Red Alert asked, angling his frame, keeping his optics off the mangled course just beyond them. It spoke for itself. 

Bluestreak gave him an askance look. “Do I ever?” 

“Not as often as I would prefer.” Red Alert loosed his energy field, reaching out, and was relieved when Bluestreak unfurled his own, gratitude and affection teasing away the other, viler emotions. “It never ceases to amaze me how you run your vocalizer over the things that don't matter, but turn to static for the things that do.” 

“Then you haven't grown bored of me yet.” He finished off the energon, dispersing the cube with a practiced flick of his fingers. 

Red Alert's helm dipped. “Such a thing is impossible,” he murmured, lightly laying his hand at the base of Bluestreak's back, one finger stroking the lower joint of his doorwings. 

Relief coursed through him as Bluestreak turned into his touch, accepting the comfort and the affection he offered. “I thought you were on shift.” 

“I am never not on shift,” Red Alert retorted, pressing even closer. He drew charge with his fingertips, letting it tease softly over Bluestreak's back and the thick cables buried beneath his armor. “That being said, there is always time for you.” He ex-vented a gentle burst of heat over Bluestreak's plating, an invitation. “You need to recharge.” 

A low hum built within Bluestreak's chassis, a good sign. “Are you coming with me?” Hope lined his vocals, guarded but present. 

Red Alert's lipplates drew into a fond smile. “I would be remiss in my duty if I did not.” 

A chuckle escaped Bluestreak, who leaned down to nuzzle his helm against Red Alert's. “It seems I am not the only one in need of a break. Though now I'm considering recharge as the last of the list of things I want to do right now. What I hear? There's no better way to relax. I should know. I got it from a reliable source.” 

True humor warmed Red Alert's spark. Was that a bit of babble? Why yes it was. Yet more proof that Bluestreak was gradually pulling himself out of his downward spiral. Sometimes, all it took was a gentle distraction. 

“Sideswipe doesn't count as a reliable source,” Red Alert retorted, but his fingers explored a seam in Bluestreak's back nonetheless, knowing just how much charge to draw to make the gunner shiver in delight. 

Warm lipplates mouthed one of Red Alert's sensory horn, his energy field shifting to a warbling tremor. “Who says I learned it from him. I have other friends, you know. Maybe it was Jazz, you think about that? Or...” Here he paused and Red Alert felt, more than saw, the mischievous grin that pulled his younger lover's lipplates. “Or maybe it was Prowl even. He can be devious when he sets his processor to it.” The rumble of Bluestreak's amusement vibrated Red Alert's sensors. 

He bit back a quiet moan. He had some dignity after all and being caught on camera or somewhere remotely public would not keep said dignity intact. Bluestreak could be quite the tease when he wanted. 

“Whoever it was has thoroughly corrupted you,” Red Alert said and grabbed for Bluestreak's hand, intending to seek more private accommodations. 

Bluestreak's laugh rang through the gun range. He didn't protest when Red Alert led him from the room, his energy field instead reaching out and caressing Red Alert's plating with amorous intent. Red Alert almost stumbled. 

“Completely corrupted,” he muttered, feeling his faceplates heat. He should have more composure than this, but perhaps he, too, had been working too hard. 

The feel of Bluestreak's joy, however, was worth all the embarrassment in the world to Red Alert. Bluestreak's pleasure was even more priceless. Their fellow Autobots might not understand, but Red Alert needed Bluestreak in as much as that need was returned. 

Unconventional perhaps, but nothing about this war was orthodox. They had all learned to take their joy, their pleasure when they could. Because tomorrow might see their end, and it was never guaranteed anyway.

Bluestreak's hand squeezed his, perhaps sensing the momentarily unhappy turn Red Alert's thoughts had taken. Offering comfort in his own way. 

Warmth suffused Red Alert's spark. 

Yes, unconventional they might be, but Red Alert wouldn't trade it for anything.

***


End file.
